More to Life
by MissScorp
Summary: "More to life than murder, kid," Gil told him as he shrugged on his jacket. "Go out and find it." Well, Malcolm decided to do just that. Tagged loosely to episode 1x05. One shot. *Complete*


He couldn't sleep.

_Again_.

Not like that was an unusual occurrence. Him _not_ sleeping was pretty much the norm. Well, for him, anyway. Regular people went to bed and got a minimum of six to eight hours sleep a night. _Real sleep_, he qualified as he crossed an intersection. _Not just the ten minute intervals that I string together every few days. _

He jumped when rats scurried out from beneath a pile of boxes stacked in front of a building and darted across the empty street. A nervous laugh burst from him but quickly became a gasp when the source of their distress jumped out a few seconds later, its dinner securely held between its fangs. The small orange tabby hissed at Malcolm before running off to feast in private.

"Just a cat," he said as he waited for his heart to resume beating at a normal pace. "Nothing to worry about."

Doing that was a lot harder than saying it. Malcolm hunched his shoulders and shoved his quaking hands in his pockets before resuming his walk. _Even that cat will get sixteen hours of sleep at some point_, he realized as bitterness swirled through him_. Everything gets more sleep than I do._

_Well_, he amended as a lone taxi passed him. _Not everyone_. Doctors, pilots, and cops had just as bad sleeping habit as he did. Still, they probably got anywhere from two to four hours of sleep a night. If he managed two to four hours every three or four days was a miracle. The last time he got any sleep — real sleep, not the bits and pieces that happened between the fragmented memories that tortured him on a daily basis— had been after Dani knocked him out.

He joked the next morning he should have her punch him out more often. Well, he'd willingly let her sock him one if it'd let him get a few hours sleep tonight.

No, what he needed was a murder.

Malcolm was fully aware that his need for a case to fixate on was the textbook definition of avoidance behavior. He openly admitted to Gil that his use of murder was the only thing keeping him sane. That it kept him whole. A murder to solve was his way of avoiding the things lurking at the edge of his conscious mind.

His mother and sister regularly expressed their wishes for him to give up his fascination with murder and murderers. They didn't understand murder helped him to cope.

They didn't understand that the voices only quieted when he focused on working up a profile or investigating a crime scene.

The anxiety that plagued him eased.

Solving cases and stopping killers was about the closest he came to feeling normal.

To being _human_.

Murder pierced the veil long enough for him to focus, to see a scene not conjured up from his memories. He could work on a puzzle that wasn't made up of ghosts and strangers from his past, figure out how all the pieces fit together so the victims could be given a voice.

Justice.

_And I can sleep for a few blissful hours before the cycle begins again..._

Dammit, he needed a murder.

He couldn't believe there wasn't something going on in this city that required his skills as a profiler. It was New York for Gods sake! Granted, their homicide rate had dropped considerably in the last six months. Murders still happened.

Not that he could go and bug Gil about it.

He went to him a few days ago to ask for a case but Gil kicked him out of the precinct and threatened to revoke his consulting privileges if he showed up again.

"_More to life than murder, kid_," he told him as he shrugged on his jacket. "_Go out and find it_."

A dead drug dealer didn't happen along to save him that time. Which was why he was walking the dark and deserted streets at three o'clock in the morning instead of sleeping peacefully in his bed. Malcolm sighed as he started the trek back to his apartment building. It'd be morning soon. He should try, again, to get some sleep.

Especially since he promised his mother he'd come by that morning for breakfast. _Will need all my faculties about me to get through that._

He saw the lights on in the small grocery a few doors down from his building. _That's odd_, he thought, frowning. _Mr. Bashir doesn't open until six_. Concern, as much as curiosity, made him walk over to investigate. The sight that greeted him had his heart pumping, his blood racing, and every sense tingling.

_What happened here_? he wondered as he took in the broken windows, the door hanging off its hinges, and the smashed fruit stand. One of the doors had gotten tossed through the front window. The canvas sign hanging above the door also suffered as some sort of logo had been spray-painted over the name of the market.

Because the lights were on inside he could see the magazine and newspaper stands turned over, the glass display cases smashed, and food items strung all about. He heard glass crunching and made to step back when a small woman appeared in the entrance, brandishing a steel baseball bat, and with eyes hard as stone.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded in a voice like tempered steel. "What is it you want?"

"Whoa!" Malcolm quickly held his hands up in front of him. "I don't mean you any harm! I just saw the lights on and came to see if everything was okay!"

Shock, anger, confusion raced across her round face. Then her dark eyes blinked wide with recognition.

"I recall seeing you in here before." She lowered the bat a fraction of an inch. To his family relief. "You live in the building two over."

"Yes, I do." He kept his eyes on hers and his hands up. Taking no chances, for once. "That's why I was concerned when I saw the lights on. I know Mr. Bashir doesn't open this early."

"He won't be opening at all for a while." Her bitterness stung the air between them. "Not until we clean up this mess."

"Who did this?" He glanced behind her. "And why?"

"Same ones who paint their logo on all the buildings in the neighborhood did this. As to why?" She shrugged. "Who knows why children do such hateful and mean things."

"Have you called the police?"

_Stupid question_, he said to himself. _Of course, she did. _

"They're the ones who notified me of what happened." She reached up to straighten her hijab. "They brought me down here and went over the report they'd be filing before leaving."

"But..." Malcolm shook his head. "They're not here investigating."

"There's nothing to investigate."

"Someone vandalized your business."

"Yes, they did," she agreed. "But since there's nothing they can do about it they have wiped their hands of it."

"They can run prints." He waved towards the businesses across the street. "Check to see if any of those places have surveillance footage."

"For what purpose?" She set the bat against her leg. "The ones who did this will only retaliate if the police do anything to them." She heaved a soft sigh. "No, we will go on as we always have, cleaning up the mess they made and resuming running our business."

"Is that what you're doing? Cleaning up the mess they made?"

"As much as I can before the rest of my family see what those monsters did."

"Would you like some help?"

"You want to help me clean up?" Surprise flittered across her face. "Why?"

"I can't sleep," he said honestly. "And I'd like to do something to help."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"I'd be grateful for the help."

"Where do you want to begin?"

"Let's start by sweeping up the glass."

"Okay."

She made to turn but stopped.

"I'm Fatima, by the way."

"Malcolm."

"Well, Malcolm." She glanced at the devastation behind her, grimaced. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

He waved that off. Way he saw it? It wasn't a murder but it came at just the right time. _Plus, I can work on my friendship skills_.

"Let's see how much we can get done before your family arrives."

"Okay."

She turned and walked to where bags of potato chips had been opened and dumped on the ground. Malcolm retrieved the broom from where she dropped it and started sweeping the crumbs up.

_Gil told me there's more to life than murder. That I needed to get out and find it_, he thought as she got a dustpan. _I think this qualifies._

And the physical labor might tire him out enough so he could snatch a few hours sleep before going to his mother's.

Not that he believed it would.

That required hope and that was one thing he didn't have much of.

* * *

**A/N:** Hello, all, and welcome! This piece came to me after watching episode 5. It's loosely tied to episode in that it's some time after that episode heh

Please, if you like this piece, favorite it!


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